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Mom: And what about your medication?

Tate: Taking it every day, twice a day.

Mom: Have you called her?

Tate: No.

I can hear her curse out my name all the way from Texas. It’s the same conversation every night.

Mom: I love you, but you’re as dumb as a fence.

Tate: Love you too.

Tate: How’s the knee?

Mom: Doctor is happy with my progress. I should be moving about as normal in no time.

Tate: Lord help the people of Canyon Pass.

She recently had knee surgery, and I hated I wasn’t there to help her during recovery. She reassured me a friend came over to help, but I still feel guilty.

I lock my phone, smirking at how even with hundreds of miles between us, my mother still flies around me like a helicopter. Eighteen or twenty-eight, she’ll ride my ass into the ground if she suspects I’m not looking after myself. I know she loves me, but she didn’t speak to me for three whole weeks when she found out I left Iris Meadows.

If she knew I was running myself ragged to get to the end of this tour, I’m certain she’d jump on a plane to give Howard a piece of her mind before moving on to me.

She’s the only parent I’ve ever known after my dad walked out on us when I was six months old. She worked herself to the bone to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table, and clothes on my back. Life was rough for most residents in Canyon Pass. It was only as I grew older that I realized how close we were to the poverty line for most of my childhood, but where we lacked riches, she made up for in memories and affection.

Fussing over me is her love language, and once my mom dubbed you worthy of her love, that was that. No refunds. She took a lot of my friends under her wing, especially those who had it worse or came from abusive households.

It’s exactly how Talia first joined us for Tuesday night chili. Then Meat Loaf Thursdays. Pizza Fridays. Before long, Talia sitting around our dining table was a regular occurrence.

The once-sweet memory leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, and I swipe my fingers through my hair. The thing with this whole “separation” agreement is we’ve gone no contact the entire time, leaving no time to discuss what’s next.

Do we kiss and make up?

Go to therapy?

Ignore the weeks we spent fighting?

There’s another option. One I refuse to entertain.

We both said a lot of hurtful things. Regret haunted our faces as we stood off in the middle of the front yard. Her heartbroken face still plagues my nightmares.

This wasn’t permanent. For now, I honor Talia’s wishes. If I don’t, she’ll close herself off. It’s her default, has been since the day she plopped herself down at our dining room table, chin held high despite her tear-soaked cheeks.

Before I’m dragged further down memory lane, the door to the tour bus opens, and everyone piles inside, ready to move on to the final stop of the tour.

I’m at the small pop-up side table. My guitar sits untouched on the bench, my notebook bare. Finding any creative spark is proving difficult, and from the disapproving gaze Howard greets me with, he’s not impressed.

“Nothing?” He drops into the seat opposite me.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” I flip the notebook closed and fiddle with my wristwatch. Months ago, I was spouting every excuse under the sun why I hadn’t come up with any new material. My songs haven’t always been my own, but after a copyright incident a couple of months ago, I told the label my next album would only consist of songs written by me.

The incident? Well, that’s the fucking kicker.

Talia’s best friend, Harriet, is a songwriter, and to cut a long story short, her piece of shit ex-boyfriend got a job at Vance Records after they broke up. What did he bring to the table? A pocket full of stolen songs that almost got the label and me into a heaping of legal mess.

I didn’t know my recent single was stolen, and the moment I got wind that it was Harriet’s song, I handed over the rights, no argument, and convinced the label to almost triple her royalties or I walk.